Tori nodded again, sending a glance to the floor with zipped lips.
“Good girl.” Beatrice finished her vilification with a pat on Tori’s head.
Seated before his desk, Doug Bronson looked away from his screen as Beatrice entered and hurled the door closed. He leaned back and interlaced his fingers, ogling the way her legs swayed with each step. “Yes, please, come in. And good morning. Make yourself at home; take a load off,” he jested. “And would you care to explain just what in the name of God took you so long?”
“Pardon?”
“Pardon, my ass. You said twenty minutes. That was damn near two hours ago.”
“Sorry, not sorry,” Beatrice cooed. “Duty does call. I had a few stops to make before making my way here. Guess it took a little longer than forecasted.”
Bronson scanned her hands, finding nothing aside from a manila folder of contents that she neatly placed on her lap beneath them. “I guess it’s safe to assume you didn’t stop for coffee and doughnuts.”
“Hardly. So if you’re hankerin’ for them, you’re shit out of luck.” Beatrice raised a brow. “Oh, wait…you know somethin’? I’d wager your clumsy, no-count assistant might get them for you if you asked her. And as luck would have it, she’s once again plum out of things to do. You should query her…you know damn well miss thang would do anything for you if invited.”
Doug sighed. He poured a snifter of brandy, his second of the day so far, refraining from rolling his eyes. “Must you always be so insensitive?”
Taking a long drag from her cigarette, Beatrice allowed a crafty smile to slither across her face. “Why, whatever do you mean, Doug?”
“I’m talking about this infantile cold war between you and Tori. It’s been the same scenario almost every morning for months going; you, relentlessly going out of your way to be callous to her without cause. The poor girl is terrified of you.”
“Poor girl? Doug, please,” Beatrice snapped. “Spare me. If I’m callous, it’s for good reason. And if little miss dainty-pants is terrified of me, I can’t say I blame her. That four-eyed, sputtering bookworm is a waste of space, and if she did her damn job every so often, I wouldn’t have a single gripe with her. As it stands, this misconduct she’s been subscribin’ to lately makes me want to jerk a knot in her tail.”
Doug took a sip from his snifter and licked the sweetness from his lips. “Tori doesn’t sputter. And what misconduct?”
“This debate is an errant misuse of time. Considering recent events, I deem there are far more emergent matters to chew over. Let’s change the subject for now, shall we?”
Bronson exhaled an irritated sigh. “Right, of course. I’ve…skimmed through some of the reports, haven’t had time to go over everything, but what I’ve seen so far doesn’t look or sound promising.”
“Have you bothered takin’ a gander at the body-worn video yet?”
“No, not yet, but I—”
“No point in fussing over it, then.” Beatrice slid a glass ashtray near to butt out her cigarette. “That footage won’t do anything other than skyrocket your blood pressure. You might want to let me fill in all the gaps for you.”
Bronson’s expression skewed. “Was it really that bad?”
The blonde nodded her certainty, inhaled and flexed her chest. “It was far from bein’ pretty.” She repositioned the manila folder from her lap to the desk, opened it and spread a pile of printed photographs from within into a collage.
Doug studied the photos with drawn-in brows, soon placing an index finger onto one catching his eye. “Am I to presume this twosome are the would-be perpetrators?”
Beatrice nodded affirmation.
“Those uniforms look government issued,” Bronson said, looking perplexed. “Or well-tailored lookalikes.”
“Their attire is likely legit,” said Beatrice, a vile stare falling upon the brunette female caught in the photo. “Both subjects presented valid, unexpired DSS credentials to accompany their outfits.”
“Diplomatic Security?”
Beatrice nodded.
Bronson countered with a harrumph, denoting his displeasure.
“I’ll personally be investigating all angles and avenues as time allows. I do have to say, though, that I’m not the least bit delighted with the performance of our perimeter security teams, allowing those two to just waltz on in here like they did. I’ll be calling on Sergeant Adams at some point today to discuss his spell of gross negligence.”
“Adams?” Bronson prompted. “You mean Mitch Adams? FPS?”
Beatrice shrugged. “The sergeant’s surname eludes me. Whatever idgit you had runnin’ the northern checkpoint.”
“Had?”
“Um-hmm. I’ve taken the liberty of having him…reassigned for the interim,” Beatrice said, obscuring her judgments. Permanently relieved of duty, more accurately.
Sighing frustration, Bronson forced himself to deviate. “Fine. Have you identified the transport? Doesn’t look anything like one of ours.”
“It isn’t. It’s not even native. That’s a Marauder. A burly, diesel-guzzlin’ armored personnel carrier manufactured by Paramount Group out of South Africa. Not the most popular find.”
“Is that a Browning machine gun in the turret?” Doug peered closer. “What’s the device it’s mounted to? A camera or some type of targeting system? I don’t recognize it.”
“And you’re probably not alone,” said Beatrice. “That’s a Mini Samson RCWS, a remote-controlled weapon station. It’s Israeli-made, Rafael Defense Systems out of Haifa.”
Bronson rotated his head side to side, both his interest and suspicion redlining. “A fifty-caliber machine gun, an Israeli remote weapon system and South African military armor. Considerable hardware, none of which, failing the M2, has ever seen common use by any domestic-based federal agency, particularly DoS. Any notion as to what business the State Department could possibly have in this region?”
“Sure.” Beatrice chuckled. “None at all. Bupkis. Jack squat. Our dynamic duo might’ve been DSS agents at one time, but I contend they’re both AWOL now…operating off the reservation, parading around embezzled hardware.” A pause. “Of course, none of that really makes a difference one way or the other. We know what came about and what we’re up against. But most importantly, we know where they went.” She skimmed through the pile of photos, exposing a set of aerial shots. “I had the RPA boys do a low-altitude reconnaissance run from the incident scene westward. That’s why it took me so long getting here. That APC is an ogre, leaves behind a distinctive footprint. The snow even lent a hand. Made it easy as dickens to track.”
Doug raised a brow. “So where did they go?”
Beatrice provided an answer by pointing to a location on the photographs.
His interest now fully woke, Bronson acquired and studied them. Moments after, his face knotted into a grimace. “I’ll be damned. I’ll be fucking damned.”
“You might, if you’re lucky,” Beatrice droned. “Awful ironic that of all the places in the world, they chose to vamoose directly into an area of unique interest. You took aim on that valley months ago, didn’t you? And for some arcane reason, those folks have met every enmity you’ve sent their way with substantial resistance.”
Glowering, Bronson gulped his brandy down and sent a hard stare to his monitor, his right palm slapping down atop his computer mouse.
“Doug?”
Bronson didn’t answer.
“Doug?”
“Leave me to this, Beatrice,” he demanded.
“Hey now,” she pled. “You’re winding up tighter than a clock, and there’s no sense in that. Hear me out a minute before you go gettin’ riled up.” She leaned forward, sliding a gentle hand over his rigid one. “I know what you’re thinking. And believe me when I say that I also know how you feel.”
“Oh? You do, do you? Well, enlighten me. How do I feel? And while you’re at it, kindly divulge the number of agents killed in the line of duty this morning, all of w
hom are now in need of funeral arrangements, notification letters sent to next of kin, and God knows what else.”
“Doug…”
“How many bodies comprise a QRF these days, Beatrice?” he barked. “A dozen? A fucking baker’s dozen?”
“All right, Doug! That is enough!” Beatrice shrieked, clamping down on his hand.
Bronson tried pulling away but was unable to break the tensile strength of her grasp.
“Listen here,” she began sternly and unsmiling, soon finding a softer tone. “You requested that I work alongside you, and I accepted that request. I am here now to advise you as needed, administer your orders, and help you make sense of all this. And as you must know, I also care very deeply for you, and I simply cannot bear to see you this way. You believe that, don’t you?”
Bronson hesitated. “I…suppose.”
“I know what you’re lookin’ for, and it’s completely natural. You’re craving a speedy doling out of severe retribution. And that craving is tuggin’ on you now like a tow truck doin’ a repo. But you must hear me out, we mustn’t react—not now, and not in this manner. Doing so isn’t the suitable way to go about it.”
“How can you say that? And why isn’t it?” Doug yelped. “Are you seriously endeavoring to convey to me that the only acceptable response in this case on our end is dismissal? Full-on, flagrant nonreaction? Because if so, I fiercely and vehemently beg to fucking differ.” Detecting his cohort’s loosened grip, he yanked his hand away. “This never should’ve happened. I should have wiped those grubby, unavailing heathens off the map months ago.”
“Um, not meanin’ to call you out or anything,” Bronson’s shapely companion began, “but you’ve already taken a couple stabs at doing just that with nothing much to come of it.”
Bronson didn’t respond, only looked away with an enraged expression of a man well on his way to misplacing half his dignity.
“I know the saga well,” purred Beatrice. “The full-frontal assault using hired mercenaries was a decent plan on paper. Even ole’ Seth Bates was implorin’ you to go in for sloppy seconds after it didn’t pan out, using our own personnel and equipment, a plan you very wisely rebuffed.” She scooted forward and leaned over Doug’s desk, providing him a view above and beyond her neckline. “Instead, you chose to learn from failure; something I’m sure wasn’t easy for you to pull off. You adapted, modified your strategy, and moved forward with this Solve for X hobbyhorse of yours.” She pointed to a worn leather folder that had been collecting dust on his desk. “You did so like you were followin’ your destiny…kind of like the way you and I met.”
Bronson shoved the computer mouse away. “I know all that. And I don’t regret anything, particularly the latter portion.”
“Nor I,” Beatrice moaned, “not one paltry inklin’. Being candid though, I know you had grand expectations for your pet project. I shared them. It had a modest start and just sort of fizzled out. The rate of success has been unexceptional.”
Bronson let loose with an elongated sigh. “I’m…so informed. Results have been disappointing. Though, despite my hobbyhorse’s lack of success, I recall the op falling under new ownership not long after launch.”
Beatrice deadpanned, flaring her nostrils.
“You…wish that to change?” Doug queried. “Mrs. Deputy Director?”
“No, I do not. Nor do I need reminding of who runs what around here.”
“Fair enough,” Doug said, doing his best to evaluate her. “Feel free to correct me if I’m wrong, but I’m sensing that you do, in fact, wish to change something.”
Beatrice sent a nod and went about rearranging the pile of photos. “That’s correct, I do. Particularly after what happened this morning…and after discovering your…heathens have managed to acquire support.”
“Support? What are you talking about?”
“Come now, Doug. You really haven’t been paying attention, have you?” Beatrice gestured to the photos again. “See for yourself. There’s a lot more ruckus in that valley now. There’s armor down there, military-grade armor, and lots of boys toting guns around, wearing camouflage. Not exactly your stereotypical hunter bubba types, either.”
Bronson leaned forward and squinted. “How did we miss this? What do you make of them? Irregulars? Private army?”
“Could be either. But those vehicles are military—our military. I estimate three or four of those M1083 five-ton cargo trucks and a handful of Oshkosh joint light tactical vehicles. Their numbers and formations are akin to an infantry subunit.”
“Remarkable,” Bronson barked. “Who the hell’s helping them? What military detachments remain active these days?”
Beatrice shrugged. “Unknown. Anyone’s guess, really. There are a handful of bases out there, operational statuses are either undetermined or indeterminable. The plateaus of the 304 have forever been chock-full of unorganized territorial throngs, armies and the like, though there’s never been any intel to corroborate or refute. In all likelihood, it’s nothing more than a bunch of nobbled-up old hands and has-beens.”
“Veterans?”
Beatrice nodded. “All nothing more than common criminals now, swindlers of US government property. We always knew they’d never amount to much.”
“Criminals or not, they’re fortifying their positions.” Doug rubbed his forehead. “The resistance, as it were, is building, and our ineffectiveness is to blame.” He paused. “This isn’t good. And it cannot be allowed to continue.”
“No. It most certainly cannot,” Beatrice said, her tone unfeeling. “We dwarf their numbers, but it only takes a small sum of guerillas to oppose an overwhelming force, and once they’re good and dug in, they can do so damn near indefinitely. The Afghans fought off Soviet oppression for almost a decade and kept our forces in limbo for twice that, comparably to the Vietcong. The Israelis have held off the Palestinians and the entire unchristian Middle East for centuries.” She went for and lit another cigarette. “History has always been one of the best teachers. If our goal is to amputate insurgents from their home territory, it behooves us to step our approach up a notch. Or two, better yet.”
“Well, do tell. You’ve got me on the edge of my seat,” Doug muttered, sounding annoyed. “Just what did you have in mind?”
Rolling her eyes, Beatrice obtained the leather folder from atop Bronson’s desk and blew off a layer of dust before prying it open. “For the most part, I like what you’ve done here, Doug. I really do. Solve for X holds a solid lot of workable strategies, many with potential—and that’s not me whistlin’ Dixie. Every approach you’ve put together is backed by research and generally has its merits. There’s only one gigantic problem I’m able to see.”
“And that is?”
Beatrice solidified her expression. “Every tactic, front to back, incorporates far too much injudicious dillydallying.”
“Is that right?”
“Undeniably.”
“And what, pray tell, shall we undeniably do about it?” Doug mocked her. “Toss it all? Burn the goddamn thing to ashes and start over from scratch?”
“Doug, I know how precious a man’s ideas are to him,” Beatrice said, attempting to scale back the tone. “That’s why I’m not proposing we chuck it. I’m not even suggesting a rewrite. I just think your hobbyhorse deserves some reevaluation followed by a full-on redeployment.” She relaxed and sent an expectant glance. “Have you ever read The Art of War?”
Doug Bronson shook his head and looked away.
“It wasn’t exactly curriculum or required reading, but any field operative worth his or her salt lived by it. Its passages are practically de rigueur, if you’ll pardon the phrase. A veritable Bible for anyone longing to outshine the rudimentary and run of the mill.”
Doug pursed his lips. “This is starting to sound like an excerpt from your memoirs.”
Beatrice exhaled a subdued snigger from her nose. “Do you…want to know more?”
“No,” Bronson thundered. “I want to kn
ow everything. So kindly dispense with any and all of the aforementioned injudicious dillydallying.”
“As you wish,” the blonde said casually. She settled into her seat, leaned back, and crossed her legs. “Sun Tzu wrote ‘the quality of decision is like the well-timed swoop of a falcon which enables it to strike and destroy its victim’. What he meant is that time is of the essence. Choosing when to strike is important, but not so much as being quick about it. Nothing—not one damn thing of worth—can be gained from prolonged conflict.” A pause. “We hurt those people, your heathens, as you like to call them. Our efforts were not totally in vain. The message sent was a strong one, it just wasn’t strong enough. We hit them at the right time, but we didn’t hit them hard enough. And now they’re back to their old tricks, workin’ on devising new ones.” A pause. “And we are back to square one.”
Doug groaned and efforted himself to his feet to begin a search for more brandy after noticing his empty snifter.
Beatrice uncrossed and recrossed her legs, her eyes following him. “I think you have a good grasp on many of General Tzu’s most practical arguments, Doug. You utilize deception-based warfare to your benefit and do a dang respectable job of disguising your motives. You find opportunity amidst chaos and utilize it to your advantage. You’re also mindful that the best way of waging war is doing so with minimal effort.”
“I appreciate the roses, Beatrice. I do. They’re pretty and soothing, but you’re starting to lose me, here. Just move past all the drivel and get to the punchline.”
“Fine.” The reply came rather fiercely. “I am proposing that we raise the gall dang bar.” She slid a small stack of stapled papers retrieved from her shoulder bag onto his desk. “I’ve prepared a direct-action addendum for Solve for X, to be affixed and distributed pending your approval.”
“I’ll look it over when I get a moment.”
“Outstanding,” Beatrice said irritably. “A section within regards the MQ-1C. We’ve only ever flown it for surveillance, and what I’d prefer is that we instead use it for the purpose for which it was originally designed.”
Doug huffed. “So that’s it, then? That’s the antidote to all our problems? This addendum of yours and running the Pred as a hunter-killer? That fixes everything?”
The Heart of War: Book Seven of the What's Left of My World Series Page 2